


hear the thunder of the sky (see the black crows fly)

by CocoCats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Dark, Female Harry Potter, Friendship, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Parseltongue, Politics, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Progressively Dark, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Romance, Sane Tom Riddle, Sex, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins, The Author Regrets Nothing, Worldbuilding, as sane as he can be that is, starts out light cos its first year, then this happened, this started out as a list of bullet points answering "what if Harry was a girl"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-24 16:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18167759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocoCats/pseuds/CocoCats
Summary: Introduced to a world whose call had been thwarted for too long, Harry is determined to make the most of it and build herself the life she'd never thought possible to have.Hogwarts will once again be called home by a parselmouth.(Or, Harry is eight and she tells the principalit wasn't meand he believes her.)





	hear the thunder of the sky (see the black crows fly)

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yep, I'm adding a slytherin!fem!harry to this fandom because apparently that's what my brain decided to do. It seems to like exploring weird concepts, especially after making scientific bullet points about everything which would've been different in this scenario, (which isn't something I should allow it to do again).
> 
> I'm not a 90s expert but I'll try my very best! Also, I never understood those fics wherein 11 year olds talk like 50 year old Victorian Era politicians, nor the ones where they are portrayed as common bullies, so can we have an elitist bully convinced of their own superiority with an old-fashioned background instead? A middle ground? 
> 
> On an almost unrelated note: prepare for a story with an unmitigated amount of character growth! Have you ever met a person who has exactly the same personality over the course of seven years? I haven't. And neither will my characters. They're still kids. Some are nasty kids, granted, but they're still kids. Pansy isn't head over heels with Draco yet and Draco is definitely still daddy's boy through and through. (On it goes.)
> 
> Lastly, the predisposition causing Harry to reject Slytherin when the Sorting Hat strongly recommended it was caused first by Hagrid's warning and then, more notably, because of Ron's ominous words on the train. So the train is where the canon starts diverging for real: instead of meeting Fred and George, what if she ran into some Slytherins who thought "hey, let's make sure she mixes with some good crowd" which then starts the domino effect.

Harry wasn't oblivious to how she always seemed to make a name for herself, even literally at times: with a first name like Cynthia there had been little other to do than to insist on her middle name, Harriet, being transformed into a more everyday nickname. She recalled how, in kindergarten, it was Dudley who'd created her first reputation -"icky and weird"- which had transformed during early primary years to "stupid weirdo" and finally established itself during her very last year in primary, when she was ten, as "freak". 

Freak was also the name she had been designated by Petunia, who'd order her around as soon as the opportunity arose. Even though it was her aunt she spent most of her time with -curtesy to the amount of time she spent in the kitchen helping out and being a wageless assistant available at all times, therefore often dragged along shopping for groceries and clothes as well as everything else she could be told to help out with- it was much preferred to being with Vernon, unarguably the worst uncle she could wish for, and her bloated cousin Dudley. Both of them, especially the latter, looked like they had a mean hit stored away especially for her the instant they forgot she was a girl. 

In the Dursley household, she was the origin of each problem, factor of each accident and the cause of every incident. 

(Vernon called her "girl" and Dudley "stupid", but in the dark of the night, awake in the lumpy bed in the spare bedroom she'd finally wrangled herself after a year of prodding and hinting and Petunia finally stating that she looked too ruffled and rumpled to stay in the broom closet, she whispered to herself _I'm not just any girl, I'm not stupid_. She knew nobody else could grow out their hair from a bobbed cut back to shoulder-length in a night only, she knew she had better grades than the average. The oddities of her life were both hell in the Dursley household and a private joy confirming her existence.) 

Mrs. Figgs called her "dearie" and the teachers "Miss Potter", all the while the neighborhood lapped up the tale Petunia sold them: a shy young girl conscious about how kind it was of her aunt and uncle to take her in despite having "slightly odd" parents, only wanting second-hand clothes (and oh, was Harry happy she wasn't a boy because then she'd have to wear hand-me-downs from Dudley.) She was _that girl_ and _freak_ and _weirdo_ , she was _honey_ and the child with too keen eyes the color of the poison sizzling below the surface each time anger roared into life. The one the hairdresser jokingly moaned about because of her untamable black hair, the one with the floppy fringe swept to her right to hide the lightning scar glaring above her eyebrow, the one who'd been carried by the wind to sit upon the roof of the school, where she'd then marked her latest triumph with a handkerchief tied to the school's satellite antenna. 

She was the one who didn't have to do anything for trouble to find her like a jealous lover always lurking behind the corner, appearing each time she got to comfortable with his rival: peace. 

And, in the new world of magic and mysteries waiting for her, it seemed she already had a name preceding her.  _The Girl Who Lived_. That was what Hagrid had told her and she was having the nagging feeling of dislike tingling in her veins at the reminder: it was as though the wizarding world had taken her life and frozen it at its pivotal moment, at its trauma point, and if there had to be a deal around her existence then Harry just wanted her life to revolve around something else, around something she did on purpose and not simply waddled through as a one year old baby. 

But at the moment, that was not her main concern. Her main concern was not making a name for herself at King's Cross by aimlessly pushing her packed trolley and snowy owl around. Hedwig seemed overwhelmed at the bustling and foreign surroundings, and Harry had no intentions of going up to another Station Guard and ask for platform 9¾: it hadn't come across well the first time. The last thing she wanted was to be escorted out of King's Cross altogether. 

She had glimpsed a mother and son dressed in rich long robes, the garments likely enchanted not to attract muggle attention as their eyes simply slid over them, the boy lugging along a trolley with an impressive heap of odd packages and a stately cat perched upon the trunk a few minutes ago, but by the time she'd managed to maneuver her way through the morning crowd they had disappeared into thin air.

Harry fought a wave of desperation, urgent and nervous with frustration, when the great clock above her head ticked from 10:53 to 10:54. Six minutes until the train would leave and she was nowhere near solving the mystery. Surely Hagrid had mentioned something at one point? She had the sinking feeling that he'd forgotten about that. How typical. The moment she'd actually started believing she'd be able to crawl out of the hell she'd grown up in, with its sneering taunts and whacks to the upper arms, everything worked against her to keep her just a little longer, to make her go back one more time and confess that she'd been unable to find the platform. 

(And Harry didn't want to go back to the sneering Petunia or hollering Dudley or rough Vernon and she'd never realized quite how deep it ran, how sharp that loathing cut, how it burned on the back of her tongue and seared against her heart, because she'd tasted the nectar of freedom but she'd dared to celebrate too early, she'd thought her new opportunities to already be within reach and now they were flying a way, brushing against the tips of her fingers with their little wings, teasing and awful and Petunia's cutting words flashed through her mind.)

(" _Why'd anybody want somebody like you with them_?") 

Anger fluctuated inside, a ripple in the lake of her mind spreading to gnaw in her stomach, the flames of it melting the greens of her eyes. Then she breathed out, trying to calm the fluttering of her nerves, dampening the heat of her sudden emotions. She didn't want to go back to the Dursleys and so she'd keep on trying until the very end. (Until the monochrome clock hit 11:00.) Because whether the world of magic and miracles wanted her to be with it or not, Harry Potter would not let go. 

And so she pushed her trolley forth, narrowly avoiding a herd of tourists strolling through with heavy bags and floppy hats to ward themselves against the unusually bright sun beaming at the world outside. 

Then her world froze and relief built inside, barely contained with that lingering fear of having it ripped away from her, for a woman with flaming ginger hair ushered her own group of children  forward with the words: "....as always. Platform nine and three-quarters this way- you first, Percy!" 

The oldest boy, gangly with a shock of red curls framing a rather gaunt face, pushed his own trolley straight toward the brick wall between platforms 9 and 10, and Harry tried to hurry as much as she could whilst craning her neck to see what he did once she noticed he'd picked up too much speed to be able to avoid crashing into it. 

Only, he disappeared: there had been no wandwork or murmured incantations as far as Harry had been able to see. She blinked, managing to slow down in time not to bulldoze a businessman hissing into his phone, its antenna smaller than she was used to seeing. She noticed the crowd had already thinned compared to ten minutes ago. 

Harry watched hawkishky when the twins, Fred and George though she wouldn't be able to tell who was who, sped toward the wall in turn and, just like their older brother, vanished with neither a flash nor mysterious fading. The raven heaved a slow, deliberate sigh. She'd have to ask for help, something which brought her both a sliver of comfort and a spark of hesitance despite the ticking time nagging in the recess of her mind. 

"Excuse me," she called out, forcing her baggage along with a determined smile lighting up her features. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I don't know how to get onto the Platform. Could you help me, please?" 

"Well of course, dear," the plump woman smiled warmly, lines framing her mouth deepening and eyes crinkling, "your first year? It's Ron's first year as well." 

"Oh, yes," she nodded quickly, meeting an embarrassed-looking boy's eyes, their color a dark blue specked with brown. He stood a full head taller than her and seemed to be just as thin, rendering him gangly. His ears were tipped red. She added quickly; "Nice to meet you." 

"S'nice to meet you too," he said, slanting a stare at the clock. Harry averted her attention back to the mother when said redhead placed a comforting hand on the young girl's bony shoulders to direct her.

(She couldn't remember even experiencing that herself.)

"All you have to do is walk straight toward the wall, you'll pass right through," the mother instructed, free hand gesturing toward the very solid-looking brick arch. "Perhaps best to do it in a bit of a run." 

"Right, thank you very much," Harry heard herself say, greens of her eyes fastened on her new adversary, jaw locking and arms tensing as she started walking, steps faster and faster, the wall nearing, she could distinguish each individual brick's specific shade, her sandaled feet hit harder until she was jogging, only a few more steps, the trolley pulled her along even as she tried to slow down in case somebody stood just on the other side, the tip of her trolley met the wall and- 

Slipped right through.

The wall swallowed both luggage and girl whole and spit them out on the other side, where she skidded to a reluctant halt whilst veering to the side to avoid bumping into a slightly older duo of boys, both already in Hogwarts robes filled in with green and silver. The one with the black hair and granite eyes, a stark contrast with his pale features, flashed her an aggravated glare even though she'd managed to avoid them with some margins, lips pulled up into a sneer. Then they disappeared into the crowd. 

It was even more crowded here than among the muggles. Witches and wizards, children and adults, all height so and sizes, some in smart muggle clothing, others in long robes and the majority in a combination of both, cats zigzagging between the legs and owls hooting territorially whenever an other bird came too close, groups of families and friends, lone wolves navigating their way, voices of all kinds mingling into one great cocktail of murmurs and exclamations. 

There were _so_ _many_ people.

(She had, of course, been worried about the Hogwarts students but brushed it off in the end. Surely there would be some interested in being friends, especially now that Dudley couldn't scare anybody away which had always been what would happened in the past: Harry knew she'd had friends, if only briefly, and that meant she had to be likable to some extent.)

Throwing a breathless apology which was likely drowned out by the buzzing tumult over her shoulder, Harry scurried onward to the nearest door of the train -a stunning beauty of scarlet lacquer and pleasingly old-fashioned design- and heaved her trunk from the trolley, almost dropping it onto her foot the moment the support of the steel contraption no longer bore its weight. She bit back a curse of surprise, proceeding to already place Hedwig's cage safely inside thee train before turning her attention back to the leadlike luggage refusing to cooperate. With no small degree of sweat but little time wasted she managed to drag it to the side of the train, but getting it up the two stairs proved to be just about impossible. 

She inhaled a shuddering breath. Three more minutes. 

Two shadows passed just above her, and a glance upward provided the image of the two boys who'd scowled at her as though she was the scum of the earth passing by, the black-haired boy this time ignoring her and his brunette friend, who had a more healthy parlor and eyes a muddy brown reminding her of that one color photo she'd seen of the Great War trenches, shooting her an amused look over his freckled nose. 

Determined not to react to the infuriating expression reminding her too strongly of Piers -the more intelligent and passively haughty version of Dudley, although this boy was older and more built than the scrawny muggle- she exhaled sharply and, tucking her increasingly tangled and gross bangs away from her forehead which was starting to threaten her with a sheen of sweat, turned her attention back to hoisting the trunk up the first step. The fit of frustration allowed to to get one corner leaning against the stair, but she couldn't make it budge an inch more. 

"Do you need any help with that?" 

Harry looked back up, hands cramped around the warm handle of her baggage. It was the brunette, who had apparently not left, now smiling pleasantly. Harry had to pause. Hedwig stared at her with expectant yellow eyes. 

The other boy, more slim of stature and with longer, sharper planes to his face, shot his friend a questioning glower, as though not understanding where that decency had come from. Harry, for her owl's sake and her own future, didn't point out that he had previously seemed to decide to hate her. 

Vivid green eyes stood wary, trust firmly clamped down upon. But hope still flickered. 

The first boy indicated toward Harry with a tilt of his head, and said girl quickly smoothed down the mess passing as fringe again, covering her scar. Apparently flashing that mar was a ticket to free help, but something about it left a bitter taste in her mouth. The ghost-skinned boy's frost melted away from the pinched set of his lips and gray eyes. 

"Sorry for not helping earlier," he apologized with a curl of the mouth, his voice the hushed sort one somehow still managed to hear with ease. 

The first one filled in; "We mistook you for somebody else." 

Telling herself they might've mistaken her for the little sister of a bitter rival -because she wasn't going to pretend to know anything about them or that oddity known as teenage boy drama- she nodded, conjuring the grateful smile she'd mastered for whenever the Dursley's had guests. She said; "Help would be great, thanks." 

They managed to wrestle the trunk onto the train within the next thirty seconds, Harry running off to park the trolley near the wall and returning by the time they'd finished. 

"Thank you-" she started while boarding the magnificent train, trying to find the right words of gratitude because there were only two minutes left and she _hated_  shortage of time. ( _And she was on board, she'd been on her way, it was really happening and she was so very ready for this change_.) But the brunette waved away her words from the air as though they were flimsy wisps of smoke.  

"It was our pleasure. My name is Graham Montague, the quiet one here is Adrian Pucey," the healthier half of the duo spoke, introducing his lanky friend along the way. "And if I'm not mistaken, you are," he paused as though recalling something, though Harry had a feeling he did it to spare her the eventual embrassement she might feel at him knowing her on sight, "Cynthia Potter." 

"That'd be me," she confirmed, trying not to sound stiff, then added, "but please call me Harry, Cynthia doesn't sound like me at all." 

Graham grinned amicably. "If you say so." 

"We could introduce you to some others," Adrian proposed, "you don't want to mix with the wrong crowd." 

( _Diagon Alley was all marvel and magic and her heart was a soaring bird, then the pale boy in expensive robes and pointy face continued speaking; "but they were our sort, weren't they- I never understood why they'd let that other crowd in- they're just not the same-"_ )

Harry paused. 

Remembered their initial judgement on sight alone. Wondered with a chilling suspicion about _the other crowd_. 

Then thought of the new world and her hopes and ideas and a future of dreams and opportunities and she didn't want to be alone. Not anymore. Never again. She wanted to belong and be _somebody_. (Not the little phantom inside the cupboard.)

Though she nodded with a small smile, she hadn't even been able to formulate an answer before Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers long and surprisingly calloused, leading her down the train. She just barely managed to grab onto Hedwig's cage, the owl in question letting out a disgruntled hoot at the sudden motion shaking her around, before Harry found herself in the narrow corridor with compartments in either side of her. 

A glance over her shoulder provided her with the image of Graham conjuring a wand and muttering something with a flick of the rosewood stick, then tucking it away in an inner pocket of his cloak and effortlessly pulling her trunk along as though it weighed nothing. 

Harry tried not to stare, the adoration for magic blooming like a spring flower inside the cage of her ribs. 

Graham must've noticed something either way, because lips twisted into another grin: "Grew up among muggles, didn't you? Can't even imagine not having magic." 

"Must've been terrible," Adrian supplied, flat but sincere. The trio stopped to struggle her clumsily sizable trunk into a compartment which seemed to have been assigned to storage duty by the passenger car's users. After a moment, Harry, after an expectant look from a still absently cheery Graham, placed Hedwig next to a friendly-looking barn owl. Hedwig glared at it, feathers fluffed up.

"It'll all be taken up to the dorms after Sorting," the brunette supplied helpfully. Harry vaguely remembered asking Hagrid about Slytherin and Hufflepuff and getting an explanation of the Sorting Ceremony, to which she'd probed for more answers partially because she was curious and partially because she wanted Hagrid to forget there might've been a cause of her pensive mood after visiting Madam Malekin's. "You _do_ know what the Sorting is, at least?" 

"Yes," Harry promised while being steered out, Adrian's pale fingers once again on the line of her shoulder. "I-" 

"Must be odd, having to find out about magic like a mud-ggleborn," Adrian mused at the same time she began, "what were they like, the muggles?"

"Awful," she answered frankly, the wound left by the Dursleys smarting but it almost felt satisfying, for she was free, they were all gone, she could finally be great like she'd always wished when chained down by words and duties and their needling hatred, a little girl beneath the oldest blankets. Then she felt the need to elaborate: not all muggles were terrible, there was the principal who always took her side whenever she argued with enough heat, with enough conviction ( _"it wasn't me, sir," and she willed him to believe it, tried to sway his belief by mentally screaming because she couldn't afford to have Petunia receive another letter for school, she just couldn't- and suddenly he believed her_ ), there was kind Mrs. Figgs who'd give her old treats and let her take the cats up to her room whenever she had to stay over, there was the shy girl in the back of her class who'd give her mild looks, and- and- and...

All the faces of those in her asinine perfect-British neighborhood flashed before her, all those neighbors who refused to see anything other than the image the Dursleys presented when it was so obvious what was going on. All those classmates who didn't lift a finger because she was different, because Dudley's shadow always loomed over her. 

Any valiant attempt at defending them was dust in the wind as she sunk into her own thoughts. 

Adrian huffed an agreement, grip momentarily tightening on her shoulder when the train started moving. 

Graham continued chattily; "Worst sort there is, if you ask me, they shouldn't be left in charge- oi, Marcus!" 

And all her previous objections to her own statements were first smashed to bits before even leaving her lips and then buried under ground when the conversation suddenly swivelled into new territory. 

"Heard you were promoted to Quidditch Captain, congrats- pray tell, when are tryouts?" 

The boy in question had to be in one of his last years at Hogwarts, standing tall, buff and with a brutal sort of face Harry imagined seeing on boxers who'd been in a match too much the last few years. 

"He's the Slytherin Captain," Adrian informed her in his mellow way with that underlying tone she couldn't decipher but recognized nonetheless. "I'm a Chaser." 

It sounded like a good post, but Harry wouldn't know. All she did know was that's Quidditch seemed to be a big deal and a curiosity couldn't help but to stir inside. "Each House has a team?" 

There was a pause, and while Harry wished she could see the older boy's expression she didn't turn around to check as they legged down the train. The compartments on either side of her were filled. She wondered who he was taking her to, a speck of uncertainty daring to show itself. "Of course, one for each. Unless two Houses are tied, there are six games a year. It's great fun, the entire school gathers at the pitch, and winning games awards you with House points. Slytherin has won the Quidditch Cup the last seven years, naturally. And the House Cup the last six years."

Quidditch made him more talkative, she noted. It was almost cute, _almost_ : he was undoubtedly gloating just a little. 

"So each House also has a point system," she established tactfully, then wondered: "Is it possible to lose points?" 

"Unfortunately," he confirmed, dry as a bone, but Harry was certain she detected a smirk weaving into his words. "Get caught breaking a rule and points get subtracted. Here we are." 

They'd arrived outside a compartment with two girls Harry's age, none wearing Hogwarts uniform yet but both donning dresses not quite 50s in style but close, more simple and modern in the cut but older in pattern. One was a tall and regal girl with hair like frozen gold and eyes matching the deep blue of her dress, hands clasped in her lap, while the other was shorter and rounder of face and a more simplistic but practical plum dress which almost could've passed for a muggle summer dress. But not quite. Something about the subtle embroidery made it too expensive, too ornate. 

"We already told you, we haven't seen Marcus Flint," the brunette frowned, then her cocoa eyes met Harry's own viridian pools. Her dark brows climbed up toward her hairline: "Hello." 

"Hi," Harry started, feeling awkward and trying to come up with something smart to say. "I'm Harry Potter." 

From her peripheral vision, she was fairly certain she caught Adrian mouthing ' _Cynthia Potter_ ' to the new duo before clapping her once on the shoulder with a brief smile: "I'll be seeing you around." 

For a moment he lingered, gray eyes momentarily searching hers, and then he was gone, probably off to find Graham, Marcus, both or some other friends. 

"Everywhere else is full," Harry attempted the best of her smiles, fairly certain what she said was correct as each compartment she'd passed had indeed been either packed or half-full. "Would you mind if I..."

She gestured toward the empty seat.

"No, of course not," the brunette assured, a shade away from eager with glittering eyes a rusty brown. Harry slid into the empty spot next to her, acutely aware of her own simple jeans and shirt. The only salvation was the semi-flattering clip Petunia had given her with the words "your hair grows more horrid by the day", safely pinned to her left temple. Tellingly, it was the same shade of green as her eyes. (Her aunt was a vicious creature of whipping words and skeletal hands but it was those little things which made her preferable to the others.) "Is it true you grew up among muggles?" 

It was the second time somebody asked Harry that today. For a moment of alarm, she wondered if that was unusual and odd, but then remembered that Hagrid had said the greatest portion of the students were either muggleborn or halfblood. 

"Yes," she replied, and this time felt only the need to say, "and it wasn't fun." 

(She deliberately didn't think of Mrs Figgs and the shy girl in the back of the class.) 

As she'd guessed, that was the right thing to say. 

"Do they really sit in tubes and boxes to transport themselves?" The brunette asked, both curious and scathing at the idea of it, a hair's breadth away from snorting. At Harry's nod she shook her head, then smiled: "I'm Pansy Parkinson." 

"Nice to meet you-" 

"Did they tell you about Hogwarts early on, or did you have the same surprise as the mudbloods?" Her words were genuinely inquisitive. Harry wondered what mudbloods were, then recalled how Hagrid had mentioned how some circles saw themselves as purebloods- 

"Pansy," the blonde cut in, fond exasperation thawing her smooth features like a spring sun, "give her a chance to breathe. I'm Daphne, Daphne Greengrass." 

"Pleasure," the raven was quick to say, pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. Something about the way the gold and blue girl in front of her smiled reminded of her of winters: breathtaking in the right light but cold, distant, unwelcoming in the heart of hearts. She continued after a moment; "And I had quite the surprise, they hadn't wanted to tell me anything." 

"Now that's just unfair," Pansy commented, scrunching her nose up at the thought. It gave her a vaguely canine look. "But you're here now- oh, does that mean you don't know what Caramel Cobwebs are, or Chocolate Frogs?" 

"I can guess what they are from their names," Harry offered with the beginning of a smile, catching herself sitting a little straighter as though mimicking the pose of the unbelievably prim Daphne. While Pansy, too, sat in a manner rather proper, hers seemed more by habit than a conscious choice out of affection for it, almost lounging against the window. "Doesn't seem too difficult." 

"Most names are very literal, but be careful with Charm Choc, they always have side-effects," Pansy supplied with an endearing set of eagerness to inform Harry, but at the same time she felt rather like Pansy was just a question away from glowing with a sort of self-satisfied pride. 

"I'll keep that in mind. How does Quidditch work?" 

At his point, Daphne stood up, smoothing the nonexistent creases of her robes with a smile so civil it could've made a candle flicker out. "I'm afraid I have to go and find a cousin of mine. I'll see the two of you soon." 

Off she was, back ramrod straight and steps light, almost floating. Harry couldn't help but to think Daphne was from such high-society that she wouldn't even be able to talk badly of somebody behind their back simply because it wasn't proper. It almost made her laugh, but she didn't. She wondered what sort of upbringing that must've been, to wire Daphne Greengrass like that, to code each and every move and program all the phrases to be recited. 

Her heartstrings twanged at the realization, and thus she quickly put it out of her mind. 

"Quidditch," Pansy started suddenly after a heartbeat, as though noting had happened, "is _the_ most famous sport. It's played with two opposing teams- on brooms, of course. There are three Chasers, trying to score through large hoops, each score awarding them with ten points, and a Keeper to defend them, with two Beaters who try to knock other players from their brooms with bludgers. And then there's the Seeker, who tries to find the snitch. Once the snitch is found the game ends and that team receives one-hundred and fifty points. It's brilliant." 

Harry had to repeat and visualize it all before getting a clear picture. "Sounds nice, do you play?" 

Pansy's smile, infinitely warmer than Daphne's but lacking the smoothness of it, melted away. "Of course not, that wouldn't be ladylike." 

Harry was genuinely taken aback, managing to school her face into something passably amicable instead of staring over the rim of her glasses with disbelief. "Right. No girls play, at all?" 

"Well," she started with a smile hidden in the corner of her full lips, as though trying to remain indifferent to the sport but failing in her endeavor. "Some do, but- not any proper ones. We have better things to do." 

"I say it sounds like great fun either way," the shorter of the two stated. "Unless you fall and break your neck, that is." 

Pansy seemed to barely hold back a snort ( _probably unladylike to snort too loudly,_ Harry mused to herself), teeth shining through. "You don't need to fall to break something." 

"Sounds safe." 

"Never said it was." 

It was then an old lady, wrinkled like a raisin but, with her white clothing and milky skin and moonlight hair, far too pale to pull it off, came trudging along: "Anything from the trolley, dears?" 

Harry stood up with a genial smile, glancing back at her semi-friend momentarily, a glimmer in her eye. "Caramel cobwebs and Chocolate Frogs, please. You want anything, Pansy? I'll pay." 

An embarrassed sort of pride coursed through her, light and ticklish at the notion of actually having something to share. Of having somebody to share something with. The brunette looked at her for a moment, unreadable, but then spoke: "A Cauldron Cake would be nice- oh, and you have to try Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, they're a classic." 

Harry didn't even have to repeat the demand to the old lady who, with surprisingly nimble fingers and steady movements for her age had fished up a package of Caramel Cobwebs and Cauldron Cakes each, an old-school carton containing an assortment of shiny beans in all colors imaginable and a small bag of boxes Harry presumed to contain the Chocolate Frogs. 

After a moment, Harry also ended up buying Fudge Flies and Sugared Violets. Handing over the required amount of sickles and knuts, Harry returned to her seat, this time sinking down in front of Pansy, ankles crossed and hair a messy tangle trucing between waves and corkscrews jutting around her face and skimming along her shoulders. 

"Can you eat that much?" Pansy questioned, clearly thinking about the lean ratio of the slip of a girl going by Harry. "Don't think there's any space for it to go." 

"I'll manage," the bespectacled girl in question announced with conviction, placing the bag onto the small table Pansy was quick to adjust. "I want to taste everything." 

"I suppose you never had the chance before," Pansy pondered, a tightening around her mouth betraying she found there to be something off about that. "Well, can't see how anybody can say no to something laid out so prettily." 

The brunette, after a careful look into the carton of beans, picked out a light magenta one, guessing; "raspberry," before plopping it into her mouth and biting resolutely. Disappointment washed over her features, although she chewed with vigor. "Strawberry jam." 

Harry, who had just reached for a Chocolate Frog, picked a starch white bean instead, studying it as though the answer would be written upon it. "Coconut," she theorized, then tasted it and almost winced at the burning sensation of overpowered peppermint assaulting her tongue. With a cough, though she made herself swallow the icy taste, she stated; "not coconut- it's strong mint." 

Pansy proceeded to guess for chocolate, banana and cherry, only to end up with wood, chamomile and tomato. Harry guessed her luck with grass, apple and blueberry but found them to be pine, watermelon and toothpaste, to which she said; "I was really sure about the last one- your tongue looks really bloody, by the way." 

"Oh, must be the tomato," Pansy sighed, but didn't seem very sorry to have an excuse to eat more of her cake to wash away the color. "Wish I could eat this much sweets at home as well." 

"That'd be nice," Harry agreed, catching the Chocolate Frog before it could jump too far away and telling herself it wasn't a real frog, that it was meat to be eaten. "It doesn't squirm in your mouth, right? Or, if you've eaten its leg, it doesn't start twisting in pain?" 

The brunette stifled another snort; "Somehow I never thought Cynthia Potter could be funny. I always imagined you serious and gloomy, maybe little bratty." 

Harry tried not to feel uncomfortable at the realization people had grown up hearing tales of her. "Right." 

"It's good that you aren't," Pansy assured, sincere, a little oasis of calm for a split-second, and then life continued and the train sped on, landscapes blurring past like an oil painting of dark greens and azure blues. "And no, the moment it comes near your mouth it just becomes boring old chocolate." 

"Chocolate can't be boring," Harry murmured, finally having heart enough to chew off the frog's head. Better make it a quick end- oh, wow, that really tasted good. She had not expected that at all. Then again if anybody asked she wouldn't be able to say if she had any expectations to begin with. "Especially not this chocolate." 

Her head jerked up when a girl with a shock of matte red curls appeared in the doorway, dragging a boy with dark hair and a dusting of freckles with her. Her eyes were the ones of a tiger. His were glazed with barely contained tears. Harry tried to swallow the rest of the chocolate already in her mouth, only to find that it lumped painfully in her throat as she hadn't chewed enough.

"Excuse me," the new girl uttered firmly, her robes only gray and black, indicating she was a first year like them. "This is Neville, he's lost his toad. Did any of you seen one?" 

Swallowing one more time with a barely hidden wince, Harry managed: "sorry, no." 

Pansy just shook her head with eyes as flat and cool like arctic stones. 

"Well, if you see one..." the boy, Neville, hinted with a wobble to his voice, only to then be dragged along with the curly-haired girl to the next compartment and disappearing for view. Harry watched them, feeling sorry for him both because he lost his toad and because he had a toad to begin with. Hagrid had spent the entire subway ride home chatting idly about all the cons of having a toad as pet. 

"Honey," Pansy said as she picked a bean of a golden yellow color, chewing thoughtfully before announcing: "Ginger." 

Harry didn't answer for a good few moments, trying to swallow down the rest of the chocolate, tongue gliding over her teeth and feeling thankful she hadn't attempted to smile at the duo: they would've gotten a great scare at the sight. Finally, she reached out for a bright violet one: "plum." 

It ended up being an odd beverage sizzling on her tongue and burning in her throat as she made haste to swallow the bits: "Wouldn't know what drink that is, but it's not something I'd ever order." 

"Daphne got Firewhiskey once," Pansy informed Harry, about to elaborate but halting when people once again showed up in the compartment door. Harry instantly recognized the one in the middle: he was the pale boy from Madam Malekin's, with his haughty words and cold smiles and impatient waving whenever the assistant paused for too long. 

"They say Cynthia Potter is in this compartment," he drawled, silver eyes catching hers. "I assume that is you."

"Draco," Pansy greeted, a fondness lighting up her face. "Yes, but she prefers being called Harry." 

"Just Harry," the girl in question agreed after a moment, trying not to see any Dudley in him. It wasn't difficult. He was far too trimmed and sleek to suffer any resemblance, his hair such a pale shade of platinum that his skin almost appeared tanned in comparison. She had the feeling that color was only there because he'd been able to go on some luxurious holiday in the Caribbean or something along those lines. (Although, the mere thought of him in anything other than robes was impossible.) At his skeptic look, she clarified with a swath of defiance glimmering in the vivid greens of her eyes: "Harry, as in Harriet." 

He ceded the name to her, which she found only right, and noticing her stare he made his own introduction: "This is Crabbe, and Goyle," nodding at each of his bodyguard-like friends in turn, then held his hand out; "And I'm Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Harry was reminded of ' _Bond, James Bond_ ', but didn't think he'd want to hear that. For a fraction of a second she stared at him. ( _The other sort_ and _muggles_ and _muggleborns_ and she understood the link she didn't want to see, but he was Pansy's friend and Pansy was her only friend so she had to try- after all, if Pansy liked him then surely that meant something?) 

Standing up, she grasped his hand, steady and secure and swallowing down any objections until they no longer existed. "Nice to meet you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is such a good judge of character-.-
> 
> The name Cynthia was chosen for two reasons: a, it's a flower which continues the Evans tradition and b, it's old which fits in with the other names in the Harry Potter universe. 
> 
> While the HarryRonHermione friendship starts out year 1 and was an absolute thing almost right from the batch, I always found that a little unrealistic. Especially now that she's the halfblood who knows nothing about the culture in Slytherin, I imagine she'd (at least initially) keep to the grayer portion of her years. But, eventually, you can bet she and Draco will be the most awesome bros you can imagine. Once they get over their own mute hatred of one another because of course they wouldn't be able to stand each other at first. Life would be too easy if they did. 
> 
> No bashing! While I don't like all characters, none are inherently awful and therefore not even her adversaries will be one-dimensionional baddies. Yes, this includes the controversial Dumbledore who is a bit of a category of his own in the fandom, and Ron who seems to carry a lot of a hate in Slytherin!Harry fics. Tomarry is generally not kind to these two so I figured I should put my anti-bashing beliefs out there. 
> 
> Comments are much appreciated^^


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